


.45 and a shovel

by Tashilover



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: pubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:03:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irving believed him. He knew he shouldn't, but he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	.45 and a shovel

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before Irving found out about the horseman. Just fyi.

There were plenty of great reasons why Irving didn't like Crane. He didn't like how Crane came out of the blue one day, and suddenly bodies began dropping like flies in Sleepy Hollow. He didn't like how each new death was surrounded with great fear and suspicion and Crane seemed to be right in the middle of it all. He also didn't like the fact that because of Crane, Irving was now constantly questioning his sanity, his reality, and his religion.

But truthfully, if Irving was pressed to admit it, he didn't like Crane because of the amount of time he hanged around Abbie.

Irving was smart enough to know what he felt was macho-man bullshit and Abbie wouldn't appreciate the sexism one bit, but he couldn't help it. After growing up in a household full of women (his grandmother, his mother, and four sisters) he has come to be very protective of the female officers under his charge.

So when he came upon Crane at the local bar around ten at night, the very first thing to pop into Irving's head was, "Gotcha, ya son of a bitch."

Crane had not notice him yet. Crane was too busy staring into his little glass, idly shaking the ice back and forth in mute fascination.

Taking the opportunity, Irving thought of wonderful little quips he could say.

_If you ever hurt Abbie, I'll make sure your body is never found._

Mmmnn... not good enough. It was too vague for Irving's taste and it didn't satisfy him in the violence area.

_You touch a hair on that girl's head, I'll take yours._

Better, but it made him seem possessive instead of protective. Also, it sounded like he was making a reference to the so-called headless horseman.

_Crane, if you ever hurt Abigail Mills in any shape or form, I will put my gun to your head and keep pulling the trigger until my clip rings_ empty _._

Ah... perfect. Overly violent, it got the point across and just thinking about it felt satisfactory. Now it was just a matter of stomping over there and saying it to Crane's face.

Except... the longer Irving looked, the more pathetic Crane appeared.

Once or twice, Crane tried to engage the people sitting next to him in conversation. One woman looked at his clothes (his Revolutionary clothes. For pity sakes, didn't that guy ever drop character?) she cringed, and she and her girlfriend took their drinks to the far end of the bar.

He tried to speak the men on his other side, but they were too engaged in watching the football game on the tv to give any real effort in conversation. Crane soon gave up and went back to staring at his little glass, looking like a lost puppy. He took a sip, grimaced and shuddered at the taste.

Irving bit at his lip. Heckling the guy didn't seem like fun anymore. Just thinking about it made Irving feel like the douchey high school jock who picks on the unpopular kids. He considered leaving, but he came here for a drink, dammit.

Swallowing a sigh, Irving made his way over and plopped into the empty seat next to Crane.

"Captain!" Crane said in surprise. There was a little hint of relief in his voice.

"I'm not on duty, Crane," Irving said. He motioned to the bar keep for a whiskey. "You can call me Irving."

Actually, Irving would prefer Crane to  _not_  call him by his last name. That implied friendship. "I'm actually quite surprised Abbie let you out of her sights."

"I had expressed to Miss Mills of wanting a drink. She then than gave me two of these," Crane pulled out a twenty from a pocket. "And told me of the nearest establishment. Though I must admit, the drinks from this era is very... sweet."

"Sweet? What are you...?" Without asking, Irving pulled Crane's glass towards him. He lifted it, swirled the dark liquid around and said, "You're drinking  _coke_."

"Ah... is that wrong?"

Irving thought telling him the truth and decided against it. Perhaps it was not a good idea to get a method-actor this dedicated drunk. "Nah, just didn't think of you as a coke man."

The whiskey was placed down in front of Irving. He took a small sip, uncomfortably aware that Crane was watching his every move.

"Truth be told, Cap... Irving," Crane said once the whiskey was put down. "I am glad to see a familiar face here. I was feeling a little... lonely at the moment."

"Lonely? You don't come to a bar to socialize, you come to a bar to  _drink_."

"How times have changed," Crane sighed. "I remember when myself and fellow friends would come to local pubs, and we would talk for hours of our endeavors and our plans. To drink alone, I found, can be a heavy burden without friends to help you with."

"If that's the case then why didn't you ask  _Miss Mills_  to come with you?"

"I'd prefer if Miss Mills sees not my current state. I am not a happy drunk." Crane ended his sentence by downing the rest of his glass. He then coughed.

Irving had to hide his smile in his own glass. "Good luck with that," he muttered.

After wiping his lips, Crane asked, "May I enquire your reasons of being here without a companion?"

"Well, my best friend is a doctor and he's on call tonight. He's not allowed to drink. Another friend is babysitting his nephew, my sister is breastfeeding, and... well, that's about the end of my list of friends."

Crane pursed his lips uncomfortably at the word 'breastfeeding' but did not comment on the fact. "Do you not have drinks with Miss Mills?"

"Abbie? Dude, as much as I love that girl, I am still her commanding officer. Not a good idea to cross that line."

"You love her?"

" _As a sister_. God, are you really going to take every word I have out of context?"

Crane glowered and lowered his eyes to his glass, frowning deeply at it. "Believe me, Irving, I try not to. You must understand it is not easy for me. There is so much to learn and everyday I am overwhelmed with information I cannot even begin to process. I have a photographic memory and yet it took Miss Mills  _sixteen times_  to teach me how to use a smartphone. Everything here is so loud, so fast. Even now I am experiencing the beginnings of a headache because of the  _horrible_  music being played on that machine over there!"

He meant the jukebox. "What, you don't like  _The Beatles_?" Irving said, making a face. "They're considered a classic."

Crane pouted. "I do not wish to complain," he said. "I can see all the advancements this world has done. Equal rights, advanced medical procedures, amazing communication devices. I just fear I was not meant for this era."

For a guy who didn't have an ounce of alcohol in his system, he certainly was playing unhappy drunk very well. Irving quickly finished his whiskey, relishing the burn of his throat. He stood up. "One is my limit. I'll see you later, Crane."

"Goodnight, Irving."

"Look," Irving suddenly added on, turning to him. Crane gazed up to him, looking very much like a lost lamb. "If you ever hurt Abbie..."

I'll hurt you.

I'll kill you.

I'll make you suffer until your dying days.

"... just don't. Don't hurt her."

Crane nodded dutifully. "Never."

And Irving believed him. God, he knew he shouldn't, but he did.


End file.
